


The Great Escape

by ladyspock7



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Breakout, But Not Too Much Because Jim Doesn't Want to Take Advantage, Causing Way More Problems, Consent Issues, Jim feels guilty, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oswald Struggles to Regain Sanity, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:46:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyspock7/pseuds/ladyspock7
Summary: For Gobblepot Positivity Week! The 'Saving Each Other' prompt.Set in season 2. Jim busts Oswald out of Arkham, but hiding the fragile gangster is a great deal more difficult, and expensive, than he thought. It becomes a race against time between Jim's dwindling resources and Oswald's slow return to sanity.





	1. Bed of Nails

**Author's Note:**

> So...this story is definitely one of those "what-if" kinds of tales. Highly unlikely Jim Gordon would so recklessly jeopardize his career and risk going to prison, but hey, why not? If Jim's going to do something illegal, might as well be for a good cause. Happy Gobblepot Positivity Week to everybody! :)

Jim sometimes wondered what Oswald would do if he grabbed him and kissed him. Certainly it would shut him up for once.

It was a mere whim, he told himself, even if the thought of it stirred something within him, a desire hot and deep that didn't bear too close an examination.

But he was with Lee now, and he wasn't a cheater. And he definitely would not, could not cheat on his significant other with a smirking, evil-minded little crook like Oswald Cobblepot.

No matter how attractive he was.

Or how compelling it was the way Oswald let his exuberant emotions have free rein, lighting up his face with glee or smugness or rage or even sheer terror. Despite his appearance of being wild and unstable, Oswald wielded other people's impressions of him like a knife, with a surgeon's precision, nearly always to their sorrow.

Because Oswald's enemies constantly underestimated him and Jim couldn't help but be impressed, though he could never admit it to anyone, least of all Harvey, or Lee.

Something about the way Oswald let it all out, how he never hid what he was feeling, made Jim want to join with that vibrant energy, if he dared take one of the many openings Oswald made for him.

It would be so easy to give in.

And it wasn't as if part of the reason he'd latched onto Lee so quickly was to make sure he definitely would not be free and single the next time Oswald called on him, so as to shield himself from any possibility of entanglement.

Definitely not.

And it didn't matter if he did look on Jim with intensity, or even devotion if he tried to get poetic about it. Or if Oswald's expressive eyes, framed by those dark lashes, glittered as if he already knew Jim very well, and was more than willing to get to know him even better if only Jim would loosen the hell up once in a while.

Lee was a good person, exactly the sort of woman to whom he should be attracted. She was beautiful and intelligent, though she did sometimes exhibit a certain air of weary expectation as if she knew he would fail to uphold the lofty goals he set for himself, and was simply waiting for the other shoe to drop so she could get on with the chore of forgiving him.

It irked him, but it wouldn't do to bring it up in polite conversation. How would he go about explaining it? That he didn't like how she held him up to certain standards?

Oswald never looked at him that way. For all that Oswald was steeped in the criminal underworld up to his well-groomed eyebrows, Jim felt that he, at least, would understand how difficult it was to be an honest policemen in this cesspool of a city.

And why was he still comparing them, he really needed to stop doing that.

\- - - - - -

A lot of things had happened since he first met Oswald.

Theo Galavan happened, for instance.

The events of his life seemed to be divided right at that significant point, the point where Jim well and truly gave in to evil.

\- - - - - -

If he hadn't pulled the trigger, Oswald would have. Or else kept beating Galavan with that bat until he was dead, it all would have been the same.

Because Jim wouldn't have done anything to stop him. Once he'd committed to the deed he was determined to to follow through, and did just that.

Tie the man up, throw him in the trunk, drive to the deserted beach, stand back while Oswald fetched the bat...

One act after another, in terrible, orderly succession.

And Jim hadn't felt the least bit sorry about any of it.

Because, deep down, he knew Oswald was right.

Theo Galavan controlled the system in a way Jim had never witnessed before. True, the rich and powerful were subject to their own kind of law and that always frustrated him, but never had he seen anyone play the game like Galavan, never seen anyone so thoroughly escape even the veneer of justice.

It made Jim furious. And even frightened.

Clearly, in this instance, justice needed a helping hand.

\- - - - - -

Oswald confessing to the murder was a technicality. He was proud of it, more than happy to take credit for Galavan's death, to claim revenge for his mother.

So it made no difference that Jim was, technically, the killer. Oswald deserved to be in Arkham, for the countless other crimes he'd committed if nothing else.

These were the things Jim kept telling himself in the dead of night.

Except that Oswald was protecting Jim.

He'd tried to visit Oswald again, after he and Harvey saw him in the common room playing a children's game, of all things, but was told by the staff that Oswald Cobblepot was only allowed visitors who were family members, as he was in a critical juncture of his treatment and shouldn't be disturbed for casual acquaintances.

He contacted Professor Strange repeatedly, and was given the runaround. Next he called the Department of Mental Health to petition for the right to see him. After hours of frustrating phone calls, he was denied.

So he went over their heads to the state level, making the same demand and filing a complaint with the ombudsman, though he had no real evidence of abuse or neglect, other than Oswald's right to receive visitors was being violated. Later he found out that Professor Strange had already filed a restraining order against him, accusing him of harassment and interfering with medical procedure.

It got a lot messier after that.

Captain Barnes brought him into his office for a very uncomfortable talk, where Jim found it incredibly difficult to keep a lid on his guilt, and had to answer several probing questions about why he should be so concerned about the treatment of a notorious gangster who had gleefully confessed to murder.

Barnes clearly didn't buy Jim's defense that Cobblepot didn't have any family left to visit him, and ought to have someone around who gave a damn. “He doesn't have anyone else, Sir.”

Barnes stared at him for several uncomfortable seconds. “I don't see you going out of your way to get friendly with any of the other perps you sent up the river.”

Jim felt his insides writhe in an attempt to escape Barnes's gaze but he forced himself to meet his captain's eyes. “He doesn't have anybody, Sir,” he repeated. It sounded feeble even to his own ears. “And it's on my own personal time.”

There wasn't much Barnes could say against that, and he'd already lectured Jim on integrity and the importance of not compromising his reputation by associating with a convicted felon.

He folded his hands on his desk. “Guess not. But now you've gotten yourself banned from Arkham. Can't go within a hundred feet of Professor Strange, his residence, or his place of work. Understand?”

\- - - - - - -

Jim did some more quiet digging on his own, ever mindful to keep away from Barnes's scrutiny, doing things he never thought he'd do, like bribing Arkham staff into spying for him.

What he learned disturbed him.

Experiments on corpses and living persons alike. Extreme brainwashing. Torture.

It sounded like something out of a science fiction film.

Jim was losing weight at the thought of Oswald locked up in that place.

The man begged him for help, and Jim had turned away, telling himself it was for the best. It was the only way to stop his own slide into committing more evil deeds in the name of justice.

But if it was the right thing to do, why was he unable to sleep? Why was he losing weight? Food turned his stomach, though he made a show of pushing food around on his plate. Harvey sometimes asked if he was feeling all right, and of course he lied about upset stomach, must be a flu bug going around, that kind of thing, and Harvey would let it go.

Lee was harder to convince. The more he denied that anything was wrong, the more the atmosphere at her apartment took on a distinct coldness, and he began spending nights at his own place, which had about as much personality as a hotel room.

On the one night he finally got some sleep, the very day Lee left him, he was plagued by nightmares, by twisted memories of a war he almost never even thought about while awake.

_The whine of bullets. The tremors of explosions rattling through his bones as shells hit the ground. The numb terror turning his limbs to jelly._

_He was struggling over sand bags, trying to get to cover, when he heard the whistle of an approaching shell, and in that split second he knew he wasn't going to make it, he was in an awkward place, the wrong position, so only if he was running already would he even have stood a chance...he was dead..._

_Faster than thought a body crashed into him, carrying him over._

_Jim slammed into the ground with the man next to him, safely on the other side of the barrier while the shell exploded._

_After the ground stopped shaking, Jim looked up._

_Oswald Cobblepot, in a soldier's uniform but helmetless, smirked at him. He opened his mouth and spoke..._

Jim jerked awake flat on his back, the muscles in his neck aching with tension, gasping for breath. Oswald's words had made no sense.

But other words thrummed through his mind, in Jim's own voice.

Never leave a man behind.

\- - - - - -

He was haunted from that day forward. The only better description might have been plagued. It rivalled the memory of the criminal act he and Oswald blatantly committed on the banks of the river.

He made a few more attempts to get the attention of the Department of Mental Health, though he knew it was a lost cause. They were understaffed and underfunded, with too many other urgent cases needing their attention.

Jim already knew what he would do before he thanked them for their time and hung up on them.

He was light-headed and euphoric, quite possibly delusional from sleep deprivation, but he went to the nearest diner and wolfed down the blue plate special with a greater appetite than he'd had for weeks.

Fortified, he went to meet with Victor Zsasz.

Tracking the hit man down without Harvey finding out had been a trick and a half, since Jim shamelessly raided his partner's rolodex and leaned on Harvey's informants, paying them money he could ill-afford to keep them quiet.

Jim managed it mainly because Harvey simply couldn't believe Jim would ever do anything so underhanded and mind-boggingly stupid as to bust somebody out of Arkham.

\- - - - - -

Oswald curled up tight in the cot, shivering in the damp cell, clutching the thin grey government-issued blanket to his chin. A pattern of mold crawled up the wall in the corner by the window but he never complained about it anymore.

Complaining was bad.

His breath hitched in his throat and his heart speeded up to drum a tattoo against his ribs. He was so bad. He didn't want to be bad anymore.

It would disappoint Professor Strange and Ms. Peabody, and absolutely the last thing in the world he wanted was to disappoint Professor Strange and Ms. Peabody.

The shaking gripped him and he hugged himself tighter.

Disappointing them, that was....that was the wrong thought. The wrong motivation. He shouldn't want to stop being bad because it would disappoint them, he was supposed to...to want....

His thoughts, already rather muddled these days, were getting even more tangled under the growing terror he couldn't seem to keep down. He couldn't remember what it was he was supposed to think, supposed to want, supposed to feel. A fissure of pain flared behind his eyeballs and began the inexorable spread through his skull.

Oh no. Not now. This wasn't supposed to happen now. The next treatment wasn't for two days, but it was as if the physical sensations caused by that horrible machine couldn't wait to get started.

“Help me,” he whispered, then clamped a hand over his mouth.

It was long past lights out, he wasn't supposed to make a fuss. That, too, would disappoint them. Images of Professor Strange's patient, calculating smile and Ms. Peabody's cold eyes swam across the insides of his closed eyelids.

The growing ache in his bad leg began to compete for attention with the throbbing pain in his head. It hurt from his ankle all the way up to his hip. He hoped they got him the pain medication soon, just a simple over-the-counter ibuprofen, he felt that he'd asked for it very politely last time, and patiently spelled out the name on the label. Professor Strange and Ms. Peabody hadn't seemed very interested at the time, but Oswald was sure they'd heard him.

So any day now. He just had to be patient.

He withstood it as long as possible, until it grew into a stabbing pain, and at last he began to ease over onto his other side as quietly as possible.

A sudden thump, followed by a little groaning sigh, and a thud out in the corridor froze him in place, every muscle rigid with terror.

Recollections from his past life, which felt as if it had occurred a million years ago, surfaced.

That series of particular noises sounded exactly like somebody getting whacked on the head, letting out a little groan, and hitting the floor.

_No, no, no, that wasn't it, I must be mistaken_ , he thought, sweat breaking out under his hair. He must have misheard, must have imagined it.

No, none of it had happened, because he couldn't remember any of those bad things, really, all of those bad things he'd done and the bad sounds, it had nothing to do with him!

He lay frozen, terrified, heart pounding. Mercifully, the pain in his head subsided, as if it, too, were waiting.

Voices. Talking low, not quite whispering. A chuckle.

That...sounded familiar, too.

Before he could figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing, footsteps approached. At least two people. The click of a woman's heels.

Ms. Peabody?

No. Oh God, please, no. She didn't usually work at night.

His heart sped up until he thought he would have a heart attack. She'd be so unhappy if she saw that he was awake instead of sleeping like a good boy should.

The solid chunk of the heavy lock opening on the door made him flinch back under the blanket. He squeezed his eyes shut and remained still.

Footsteps entered the cell, another whispered voice. Definitely not Ms. Peabody, thank all that was holy. One of the doctors? A nurse? He felt that he knew her, too, but not from Arkham.

A hand fell on his blanketed shoulder. “Hey. Penguin,” said a voice.

He was startled enough to open his eyes and raise his head, making the blanket fall back.

Victor Zsasz grinned down at him. “Ready to blow this joint?”

Oswald screamed.

\- - - - - -

Victor clamped a hand over the Penguin's mouth. He looked over his shoulder at his compadres. “Think we got a problem, girls.”

Lovey and Tiff glanced at each other. “No shit,” Tiff grumbled, and went to watch at the door. “We got five minutes before the next guard does rounds.”

“One guard. Just kill him,” Lovey said with a shrug.

Tiff clicked her tongue. “He'll be missed. Too many.”

“And whose fault is that?” Lovey put her hands on her hips and frowned at the Penguin, who was sobbing helplessly under Zsasz's hand. “He don't even recognize us.”

Victor was momentarily at a loss. The Penguin, one of the meanest, most violent little sons of bitches he'd ever met, who should have leaped at the chance to escape, lame leg or not, was trying to pull the blanket back over his head.

“Boss, it's me,” he said. “Victor Zsasz. Remember? You know Tiff? And Lovey?” He gestured at the girls.

The Penguin quieted and his wild eyes darted toward the girls before returning to Victor's face. Victor could feel the panicked breaths flaring in and out of the Penguin's nostrils slow down, and cautiously he took his hand away from his mouth. “Do you know us?”

The Penguin stared at him and drew a shuddering breath, then swallowed hard and gave him a timid nod, a mere jerking of his head, but the light of recognition seemed to have clicked on somewhere behind that jittery gaze.

Victor tried an encouraging smile. “Yeah. 'Course you do. Like, remember that time we broke into the commissioner's house and I chopped that security guard's head right...”

Cobblepot's face turned stark with horror and he drew a huge breath.

Zsasz clamped his hand over his mouth just in time.

Lovey made an exasperated noise in her throat. “He's a giant fucking mess. What'll we do, leave him?”

Zsasz shook his head, frowning. The Penguin was sobbing again, his eyes squeezed shut. Muffled words trembled out of his mouth, and it almost sounded like he was calling for help.

Zsasz wasn't normally moved by pity or any other emotion, but an uneasy feeling nudged at what was left of his conscience. What little he'd seen of Arkham, he didn't particularly care to see any more, and he didn't want to leave Cobblepot here.

If the Penguin could get his mind right, there'd be steady work for Zsasz and the girls again, no doubt about it.

Besides, there were their reputations to think of. They were professionals with a job to do.

“The job's the same. Get him out, deliver him to Gordon. We need a gag. I know somebody's got one.” He snapped his fingers. “Come on, chop chop.”


	2. Straight Outta Arkham

Jim couldn't bear to wait in the van any longer. He paced a nervous perimeter around it until he realized he was too conspicuous, and came to rest in a wedge of shadow. He shoved his hands under his armpits, to warm them up and to stop from drumming his fingers on the van's chassis.

Not that there was anyone around. No nightlife to speak of, as there weren't any bars or restaurants in the area, just some ancient apartment buildings and defunct stores with boarded up windows. Even Gotham's permanent homeless population avoided the streets surrounding Arkham Asylum, as if it radiated such despair and horror that no one would risk seeking shelter in any building within three blocks of the place.

Better to shelter in graveyards.

Jim checked the time again. Still within the parameters Zsasz had set, which were, to use Zsasz's words, 'oh, about an hour and a half, I guess,' but Jim fretted nevertheless. 

Jim had truly plunged off the deep end but despite the turmoil of his thoughts, the doubts, the second-guessing, he felt invigorated because he was taking action, his preferred mode of being.

The truth of the matter was he could hardly wait to see Oswald again. Even if the man was angry enough to take a swing at him.

At last he heard footsteps.

He peered warily around the van. Could be a few brave homeless, or incredibly desperate ones. Or others like Jim, on secret missions of their own.

Soft footsteps and the click of heels---Tiff wore stilettos--- and the sound of panting as if someone labored under a heavy load.

And there was Zsasz coming around a corner, bent almost double under Oswald's weight.

“What happened? Is he hurt?” Jim yanked on the handle and opened the side door.

“No talking. Gotta go,” Lovey snapped, getting in the driver's side.

“Shotgun,” Tiff sang, taking the front passenger seat.

Victor fell into the van, Oswald rolling off his shoulders.

As Jim clambered in after him, he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. They'd tied Oswald up?

Lovey hit the gas and the van shot forward, almost throwing Jim onto Victor and bowling Oswald over and it took a moment for Jim to right himself.

Keeping a hand on the wall of the lightly swaying van, Jim stepped over Victor to where Oswald lay huddled on his side, as he hadn't tried to sit up. Jim had only gotten a glimpse in the dim light, but...

Oswald's bulging eyes stared at Jim, a ball gag in his mouth and his hands lashed together with zip ties.

Jim snapped, “A ball gag? Are you kidding me?”

Zsasz hadn't tried to sit up either. “Had to. He was screaming. Ohhh, my back.”

Lovey snorted. “Wuss.”

“Maybe if someone helped carry him,” Victor said petulantly.

“Not in these heels,” Tiff said.

“Check my contract,” Lovey said, grinning over her shoulder. “No heavy lifting. He don't weigh much, whatcha whining about?”

“You try carrying him two blocks,” Victor groaned, and draped an arm over his eyes.

Jim knelt next to Oswald and reached for his shoulders, helping him sit up, then reached to undo the gag.

“He's gonna start yelling again,” Tiff said in a sing-song voice.

Jim set his jaw and unbuckled the straps and got the gag off, flinging it aside with disgust.

Oswald didn't yell, but merely stared at Jim with wide eyes. Jim got out his jackknife and cut off the zip ties.

As he put the knife back in his pocket, Oswald grabbed Jim's head.

Startled, Jim took hold of Oswald's wrists, but he didn't try pulling the other man's hands away. Oswald didn't appear to be touching him with ill intent.

Oswald's overly bright eyes roved over Jim's face. He gently moved Jim's head from side to side, peering closely, eyebrows scrunched together. After finishing his examination, he let his hands drop, but the pinched, worried expression in his face didn't change. He asked in a hoarse whisper, “Could you show me the back of your head, please?”

The back of... “Uh. Okay.”

Jim shuffled around to the side and showed Oswald the back of his head, turning back to face him when Oswald heaved a sigh.

“All healed up,” Oswald murmured, sounding confused.

“What do you mean?”

“But the hole was so big.” Oswald shuddered. “I'm so sorry, Jim. It must've hurt.”

“What must've hurt?”

“The bullet. When I shot you. Walked you to the end of the pier and shot you.”

The hairs on the back of Jim's neck stood on end.

Street lights passed over the van's interior, highlighting the tears running down Oswald's cheeks. “I didn't mean to kill you. Shouldn't've done that. It was...”

Jim seized one of Oswald's shoulders. “Oswald, I'm alive,” he said, lowering his head so he could meet Oswald's eyes. “You did not shoot me,” he said, emphasizing each word.

Oswald sniffled and swallowed hard. “I didn't?”

Fuck. This was bad.

“No, you didn't,” he said firmly. He almost pointed out the obvious, that he could hardly be talking to Oswald if he was dead, but thought better of it. Clearly, the obvious was not having much of an effect.

He tried a smile. “You saw my head. No extra holes.”

Oswald still looked worried, as if he wasn't so sure he could really accept Jim's word for it, but seemed to decide it would be polite to believe him. “Okay, Jim.”

He wiped his sleeve over his face and sat with his back against the van's wall, his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands lying in his lap.

Jim gingerly sat next to him, dread curling in his stomach. He would have liked to argue his case for being alive more strongly, but wasn't sure it would help. 

Oswald lifted his head. “Oh, of course,” he said in an amazed tone of voice. He turned to Jim, his eyes glimmering with an awareness that hadn't been there before, as if he'd woken from sleep.

“I remember now. You had the gun. You forced me to walk to the end of the pier and then you pretended to shoot me.” His voice got high with excitement and his face lit up as if it were one of his happiest memories. “Isn't that right, Jim?”

“Uh...” Jim forced a smile for Oswald's sake, who seemed truly happy to have gotten it sorted out properly. “Yeah, that's right.”

Oswald smiled big, his eyes crinkling up, then he sobered, and it was as if a light dimmed. “I get confused. I can't tell if what I'm remembering is real or if it's the...the machine...”

Abruptly his jaw clenched and he clapped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders convulsing.

Jim shouted, “Stop the van! Stop the van!”

They screeched to a halt and Jim flung open the back door just in time.

Oswald staggered to the open door and bent over the bumper, retching grey vomit. Jim held onto his striped shirt to keep him from falling out.

The spasms eased and Oswald got back into the van, huddling against the inside wall. Jim reached across him to slam the door shut, then fished around in his pockets until he found an old napkin.

“It's a little greasy. Sorry,” Jim said quietly as he handed it to him.

Oswald hiccuped and wiped his lips with it. “I'm so terribly sorry about this. Sometimes thinking about the...” His eyes darted around, then he leaned close to Jim's ear. “The you-know-what,” he whispered. “It makes me physically ill.”

His face crumpled. “I'm so embarrassed. It's disgusting. You must...”

Impulsively, Jim cupped his face with both hands. “Oswald, it's all right. You're just not feeling well right now.” With his thumb he wiped away a tear. “I'm a first responder, Oswald, and I've been overseas. You know? Seen a lot worse than a little puke.”

Oswald gave Jim a little smile, but then he grimaced and clutched at his leg.

“It hurts? Do you take something for it?” Jim asked.

“Professor Strange will be sure to give me something,” Oswald said. “Or Ms. Peabody. By tomorrow, I'm sure. When are we going back?”

Jim stared, at a loss, but was saved from thinking up an answer when Victor walked over to them and coughed in a meaningful way. “Can I have a word?” he said, jerking his head toward the side door.

Jim joined him a little distance down the deserted sidewalk. Victor crossed his arms and stuck his tongue in his cheek as he ran his gaze around the street. “Soooo, don't want to be nosy, but what's your overall plan here, Jimbo?”

Jim rubbed the back of his neck. “Well. Um. I was going to take him back to my apartment. Take him in the back way.”

“Hm.” Victor pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully at the ground. “And then?”

“I thought he could stay with me a little while until the heat died down. And, well, then he'd take back his club.”

Heavy silence settled around them. Jim's face grew hot as his plan, which had seemed perfectly sound in the privacy of his own head, showed itself as the sad, pathetic thing it truly was once spoken aloud. There were a hell of a lot of missing steps.

Victor pursed his lips. “Got a plan B?” He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows.

“Uhhh...” It was the best Jim could come up with.

“Not so good with master plans, eh, Jimbo?”

“He wasn't this bad before,” Jim said heatedly. “When I saw him last, he wasn't so...” He gestured at the van, then let his arm fall. “I don't know. Lost.”

Maybe Jim had been fooling himself. Some part of him wanted to believe Oswald had been putting on an act in the Arkham common room, playing that game...what was it, 'Duck, Duck, Goose'? Pretending to play along to get that Peabody woman off his back.

Oswald wasn't crazy, no matter what he'd flippantly claimed at the police station when they'd brought him in. An evil-minded little bastard, yes, but not crazy.

But that was before Arkham. Now Jim wasn't so sure.

Victor sucked his teeth. “Could be they tried brainwashing him.”

“You think he's been subjected to some sort of conditioning?”

“Yep. But I don't think they finished the job.”

“How do you know?”

“Professional opinion. Take a guy and break him down so he doesn't know which way is up. Make him dependent on you so you're the only one that matters. Once he's at rock bottom, you drop in the qualities you want, or give him his orders or whatever, and bibbity bobbity boo,” he snapped his fingers, “brainwashed.”

“But why? What does Strange want him to do?”

Victor shrugged. “Beats me. Like I said, I don't think the good doctor got to finish up. Cobblepot seems sorta open to suggestion. Clingy. Latched onto you right away. Could be all he needs is some R and R and he could go back to how he was before.”

Jim rubbed his neck. It was ridiculous to feel pleased that Oswald had 'latched onto' him, as Zsasz put it, not when Oswald wasn't even in his right mind. “How much time?”

Victor made a noncommital grunt. “Few weeks. Months? I dunno. Never _un_ -brainwashed anybody before.”

Jim sighed. He wasn't particularly keen on extending his association with these hired killers, but he was feeling out of his depth, the waters getting deeper every minute. Oswald was in far worse shape than he'd anticipated and Jim needed help, with very few options. Almost no options, really.

Maybe he could call Harvey...

He winced. No. Not even remotely possible.

At least Victor and his girls weren't simply dumping both him and Oswald on the nearest corner, as they had every right to do. They'd fulfilled their end of the bargain, and weren't really under any further obligation.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

Victor clapped him on the shoulder. “Jim, this is your lucky day. Just so happens we know a safe house.”

\- - - -

They got back in and Lovey revved up the van, making the tires squeal as they pulled away from the curb. 

Even with the heat on full blast, Oswald was shivering. Jim took off his leather jacket and draped it over his shoulders. Oswald clutched it with pale fingers and stared at nothing.

Jim sat next to him on the floor of the van, shoulder to shoulder. He wasn't that much bigger than Oswald, but Jim's jacket engulfed the other man, as if his time in Arkham had shrunk him, making him lose height as well as weight.

Slowly Oswald's head drooped and settled onto Jim's shoulder. Jim held still, but when the van made a sudden jolt, Oswald jerked awake, eyes wide with panic. “I was asleep, Professor,” he said, voice shaking. “I really was!” He lurched to his feet.

Jim reached for his arm. “Oswald, it's all right. Sit down.”

Oswald gulped and drew a shuddering breath. “You'll tell him, won't you? I-I-I'm supposed to be sleeping right now. Please tell him. There's so much trouble when I don't do the right thing. I've been good, I swear, I swear-”

“Oswald!” Jim was on his feet, and he gripped Oswald's shoulders, putting a stop to the breathless monologue. “It's all right,” he said. “I know you were asleep. Everything's okay.”

Oswald was shaking. “You'll tell Professor Strange? That I've been good?”

“I'll...I'll make sure to tell him,” Jim said, heart sinking.

Oswald's face broke into a sweet, relieved smile. “Oh, thank you, Jim. You're very kind,” he said, resuming his seat.

Jim sat heavily next to him again, too, feeling like a heel. The lie left a bad taste in his mouth.

The van made one more turn, and slowed. Tiff pressed a remote and a garage door opened. 

They pulled into the garage. Victor slid open the side door and announced, “Home away from home. Come on, boss. It's the Winslet place. You been here.”

Oswald shrank back, clutching Jim's jacket close around his shoulders. “N-no. I don't...don't think... was this approved by Professor Strange?”

Victor paused for a beat, then said brightly, “That's right. Heard it from the man's lips himself.”

“Hold on, hold it,” Jim protested, as Oswald began to stand up.

Tiff groaned. “Come ooonnn, he was almost out. Gonna stand here all night?”

“Could carry him in,” Victor said. “Long as Jim helps.”

“Just wait a second.” Jim rubbed his forehead. They were setting a precedent, here, and Jim wanted to do this right, or at least as right as he could make it.

“He's confused enough as it is,” Jim said. “We have to give him straight answers. No more lies.”

Victor tilted his head, considering. “Could have a point.”

Lovey nodded. “Cop's right. Gotta bring him back to reality.”

Tiff groaned and rolled her eyes. “Fiiiine. So how do we get him into the house?”

Oswald's eyes darted around from face to face with growing uneasiness.

Jim licked his lips and thought about how to proceed. “Oswald, do you trust me?”

Oswald blinked. “Of course, Jim."

“Then come inside with me.” He held out his hand. “Take my hand. It'll be all right. You can trust them, too,” he added, as Oswald's hollow eyes darted toward Victor and his girls.

Oswald got up, standing as tall as the van's roof allowed, and clasped Jim's hand.

He held Jim's hand the short distance across the attached garage and into the house, as trusting as a child.

Jim flicked the switch on in a mudroom, but only got a glimpse of a washer and dryer, coats on hooks on the wall, boxes of cleaning detergents on shelves, when Lovey smacked the switch off again.

Briefly blinded in the sudden dark, Jim started as Lovey grabbed his upper arm in a surprisingly strong grip and hissed, “Jesus fucking Christ, we have to check the place first.”

“Thought this was a safe house,” Jim said, taken aback.

“Forgive him, Lovey,” Victor said. “The good detective doesn't know much about the finer points of staying under the radar.”

“I've guarded plenty of witnesses,” Jim said, feeling indignant. “I think I know something about staying under the radar.”

There was enough faint light from a window that he could make out Victor's pitying expression. “What, like witness protection? Staying at a hotel under a fake name while the other cops bring you snacks? Stuff like that?”

Jim felt his face flush. “Uh...”

“We're hiding from cops _and_ criminals, Jimbo. Nobody can know we're here. Might be squatters found a way in.”

With that, Victor and the girls drew their guns.

Jim grabbed Victor's arm before he could stalk away. “Wait a minute. You're going to kill anyone you find? Even if it's just some poor schmuck who wanted out of the weather?”

“Poor schmucks talk,” Victor said.

“No,” Jim said, through his teeth.

“Jim,” Victor said in a light, cajoling sort of voice. “Me and the girls are going above and beyond the call of duty, here. And that's on top of the discount for the original job.”

“That was a discount?” It had wiped out a third of Jim's savings.

“We haven't gotten to negotiating this new deal we got going on here.” He waggled his fingers around at the house, and Oswald. “But if you're willing to take the risk for some rando bum flapping his gums and it lands in the wrong ears, well, it's going to cost you.”

“So I have to pay you not to kill them.”

“Bingo.”

“Must be a first. Paying you not to kill,” Jim muttered, and began reaching for his wallet.

Which is when he realized Oswald was still holding his hand.

He cleared his throat. "Can I have my hand back a sec, Oswald?'" he asked, and Oswald released him, with some reluctance.

Jim was glad it was dark, because he was blushing hard. He took out his wallet. “Look, all I have on me is seventy-two dollars. Can I owe you?”

Victor let out a long, put-upon sigh. “Tell you what. We'll discuss the fee if we turn up any squatters.” He turned to go, then came back, snatching the wallet and taking the bills out of it. “Oh, hey, I can pay them off to keep them quiet. That works pretty good, too.”

“Pay them...why didn't you say that before?” Jim snapped.

Victor shrugged and followed Lovey and Tiff as they disappeared into the house.

“Poor squatters,” Oswald murmured. “It's so cold in here. Do you think we should find them something to eat?”

“Let's hope they don't find anyone," Jim said, putting his considerably lightened wallet back in his pocket.

Oswald shyly brushed his hand against Jim's, a silent plea, and Jim was quick to take his hand again. Oswald edged closer still, as if soaking up Jim's warmth, and together they stood there in the dark, waiting for the assassins to come back.

Bizarre? Sure. But when Oswald laid his head against Jim's shoulder in weariness, Jim had to resist the urge to stroke his hair. That would be taking it too far. As if he wasn't already neck-deep in trouble.

\- - - -

The house proved free of squatters, fortunately, and all of them went into the furnished basement. Lovey got the furnace running while Victor and Tiff turned on the TV and the oven, announcing it was pizza time.

Jim got Oswald settled in a bedroom. Oswald followed obediently enough, but he asked expectantly when he would be returning to Arkham.

“Not right now,” Jim said, too weary to think up a better answer other than evasion. “You need to sleep.”

He found some Advil in the bathroom which Oswald swallowed without questioning what it was.

“I'll bring you some clothes tomorrow,” Jim said.

“Why?”

“Don't you want to change?” he asked, gesturing at Oswald's striped Arkham uniform.

Oswald looked down, then up again, thoroughly bewildered. “It's not laundry day. Does Professor Strange want me to change?”

Jim fought down a sudden desire to find Strange and beat the crap out of him. “Let's talk more tomorrow. Why don't you get some sleep?” he said, making his voice steady.

Oswald crawled under the covers of the narrow bed and closed his eyes.

Jim laid out an extra blanket he found in a closet, then slipped out of the room, turning off the light as he went.

Not long ago, having Oswald cooperative and non-snarky would have been a dream come true for Jim, but now he would give anything to see the gleam of wickedness in Oswald's eye again.

Whatever the price.


	3. The Finer Points of Penguin Care

  
In the wee hours of the morning, Jim shuffled into his apartment, his mind spinning and his chest tight with anxiety about the latest hit to his bank account.

He was expected to cough up five thousand for Zsasz and the girls tomorrow. A retaining fee, they said! Plus four hundred per assassin, per week. Payment in advance. Thank God he was getting his next paycheck soon.

It was just possible to squeak by, if he was very, very careful, stopped eating out, stopped drinking, switched to his cheaper wash-and-wear suits and quit the dry cleaners, cancelled his cable. He was rarely home to watch TV and only watched about two channels anyway.

Could he skimp on his credit card payments for a couple of months? He grimaced, wishing he'd saved those junk mail offers for new cards at lower interest rates. He wondered if his junk mail was still in the recycling bin, but was too tired to go check.

God, what in the hell was he doing? The enormity of his actions pressed down on him as he curled up in bed, hugging a pillow to his chest.

Like the killing of Galavan, the repercusions would reverberate throughout his life, setting off consequences beyond his imagining.

Unexpectedly, the memory surfaced of Oswald jamming that umbrella down Galavan's throat. Jim hadn't turned away or tried to stop it, because what was the point, the guy was dead, but watched nonetheless with horrified fascination.

 _That sent one hell of a message,_ Jim thought uncontrollably, with a touch of savage pride.

Word had gotten around about the state of the corpse, Jim heard the whispers. The coroner must've talked, or the EMTs. It enhanced Oswald's reputation, for sure. Nobody fucked with the Penguin, or the Penguin's own.

But now? This new Oswald was too timid to even pick up a flyswatter. The man was a wreck, and it was Jim's fault.

He couldn't stand it. If Zsasz was right then it should simply be a matter of time. Oswald just needed some care, time to recover from his ordeal, and he would go back to normal.

Hopefully.

And if normal for Oswald was being a hyperactive, self-absorbed, borderline psychopath with a knack for murderous rampages, then so be it.

Because Oswald was also brilliant and ambitious, and he loved this rotten city as much as Jim did. Arrogant, sure, but sensitive, and generous to those loyal to him, and for those he loved. Where Jim covered up his emotions, Oswald gave them free rein, and...

...and Jim wanted him back.

Wanting wasn't the same as getting, however, and he would have to be extremely careful not to get caught, otherwise he'd go to jail and Oswald would get shipped right back to Arkham, and not a damn thing Jim could do about it.

After lying in bed for three hours staring at the walls and wondering if he owned anything worth selling on ebay, his eyes finally started to feel heavy right around the time he needed to start thinking about getting up for work.

Didn't matter. He'd gone without sleep before. Tonight he would catch up.

\- - - - - - - -

The hum and buzz of the station was so ordinary. The world continued to turn, indifferent.

It was deceiving, of course. The world was merely currently unaware of what happened. Once the escape was reported, Jim would be subjected to some standard questioning, simply because of his close association with the man. Probably not today, unless whoever got the case was really on the ball, but soon.

He made his way to his desk, grunted hello at Harvey, who of course just had to be on time today, and immediately buried himself in the files from the inbox.

“Late night, huh?” Harvey said.

He kept his eyes on the paper in front of him and shrugged.

“Hope she was worth it,” Harvey said, and Jim couldn't miss the lascivious grin in his peripheral vision.

A few moments passed in which Jim almost got to the point where the words in front of him were actually making sense, when Harvey cleared his throat. “Y'know, I been thinking...” Harvey folded his newspaper in a distracted way. “I could go visit Oswald for ya.”

The words sent a jolt through Jim's brain that nearly made him black out. “Oh. Visit?” He was amazed his voice sounded so normal.

“Yeah.” Harvey scratched his head and readjusted his hat, grimacing a little sheepishly. “I can go check on the little bastard for you. The restraining order doesn't apply to me. Write him a letter, I'll bring it along.”

Jim exhaled, remembered to breathe normally, struggled to get his brain working. “I don't think they're letting him see anyone.”

Harvey drummed a pencil with his fingers. “Huh. Well, how's about I pretend to go ask him about a case. Make it official. They'd probably let me in, then”

“No, that's not necessary. You shouldn't bother.”

“Really? You seemed so worried about him last week. Makin' all those calls.”

Jim couldn't quite meet Harvey's eye. “Maybe he is a lost cause after all. I did what I could, made the old college try, but he's probably better off where he is.”

He offered Harvey a sincere enough smile, and said, “But thank you. I appreciate it.”

Which he did. Appreciated Harvey's effort at goodwill, certainly.

Getting up from his desk he went to get some coffee and to escape his partner's puzzled frown.

Alone in the canteen, he smacked himself in the head.

Idiot, idiot, idiot, he was a grade A idiot. He should have accepted. Harvey would've gone to Arkham, and come back all abuzz with news of Oswald's miraculous escape, and Jim would've been free to express his complete and utter surprise, wow, how about that, wonder who sprang Penguin? Yeah, that's crazy, Harv, never saw that coming.

Harvey would remember Jim's sudden lack of interest in Oswald's welfare, now.

\- - - - - -

Around noon he gave Harvey the slip so he could chat with other officers about unusual disturbances at Arkham, but there was no report about a break-out or a patient gone missing.

The Penguin was a high-profile inmate, and they didn't see fit to warn the public of the escape of a convicted murderer?

It sent his nerves into overdrive. They must have noticed Oswald's absence long before now. What the hell was going on in that place?

He knew damn well that Zsasz and the girls must have caused at least one guard a serious injury, at the very least, he knew they hadn't gone too far out of their way to avoid mayhem. Didn't the staff care about their co-workers?

It would've been suspicious if he kept asking questions about an apparently non-existent break-in, so he went back to his own work. Doing his best to ignore the low-level dread curdling his stomach, he fell into the familiar rhythm of bantering with Harvey, went through the motions of avoiding Dr. Thompkins, which was easy enough as she was equally invested on avoiding him as well, and somehow he managed to make it through the day.

He'd told Zsasz to text him if anything happened, but despite Jim checking his phone approximately a hundred times an hour, there was silence from the safe house.

As soon as his shift was over he stopped by an ATM to get cash, and made the unnerving discovery there was a five hundred dollar daily limit on withdrawals. When did that start? Shit. Zsasz and the girls would have to be satisfied with five hundred until he could get to the bank tomorrow.

Eyes like sandpaper, he headed to the Winslet place, feeling as if his mind was disconnected from his body and constantly hurrying to catch up.

In his exhausted state it would be easy to fall into carelessness. He took a circuitous route, and checked the rear view mirror constantly, and only then was he satisfied he wasn't being followed.

 _Somebody_ must know Oswald was at large. Why Strange hadn't informed the GCPD mystified him.

Maybe Strange had his own staff out looking for Oswald, though Jim found it hard to believe the man had enough staff to send on a search mission, certainly not nearly as much manpower as the GCPD.

Jim needed to keep a low profile, make sure he wasn't being followed. Safest that way.

It was highly unlikely anyone could connect Jim to Oswald's emancipation in any case. That was why Zsasz refused to bring Jim along for Oswald's break-out, to make absolutely certain Jim couldn't be identified. If any of the Arkham staff spotted the assassins and lived to tell about it, it would be assumed they'd acted on their own or at the behest of a criminal ally of Oswald's.

Zsasz and the girls couldn't care less if they were ID'ed. Jim, however, would be all too easy to track down.

But could someone have spotted Jim waiting with the van? He hadn't seen a single living soul, which didn't necessarily mean someone wasn't watching from the shadows.

He almost would have preferred Dr. Strange striding into the station to confront him, demanding the return of his patient, demanding Jim's arrest. At least Jim could have the satisfaction of punching that smug asshole in the face.

His hands twitched on the wheel and he forced himself to relax. He needed to be calm. Oswald wasn't going to be helped by Jim beating up Dr. Strange, as satisfying as that would be.

\- - - - - -

Ever the detective, Jim took a quick glance into one of the rooms in the house before he went downstairs, to get some idea of who might have once lived here. The ornately carved wooden chairs and table in a dining room were covered with dust along with a full table setting, with candles in their holders, also dusty and stringy with cobwebs, burned down long ago to cold stubs.

As if the previous occupants had been prepared for a night of entertaining, but ended up leaving so abruptly they didn't snuff the flames.

Victor Zsasz was alone in the living room of the furnished basement, watching TV. The furniture down here wasn't as fancy as upstairs, but perfectly serviceable.

He didn't seem particularly upset that Jim didn't have the full payment, maybe because Jim was in it up to his neck and in no position to cut and run.

“Get the rest tomorrow, Jimbo,” Zsasz warned, putting the envelope in his inner pocket and stretching out on the couch again. “Lovey gets real touchy about stuff like this. The girls went out. Penguin keeps asking when he's going back to Arkham.”

“Did he eat?”

“TV dinner in the oven. It'll be ready pretty soon, if you wanna bring him out.”

Jim frowned. “Why are you keeping him in there?”

“I'm not. Never said he had to stay in there,” Zsasz said without taking his eyes off the screen. “He just does. Probably better for him right now, anyway. Think he misses his little cell. Plus he's scared of us.”

Jim walked across the living room to the bedroom.

“Wait a sec,” Zsasz said, sitting up halfway to look over the back of the couch at Jim. “Don't talk about his treatment, or the machine. He might upchuck again.

“I was trying to figure out if the TV was triggering him,” he said, shrugging at Jim's questioning look. “'Cuz he was looking a little freaked out about something, so I'm guessing there's certain images. Or catchphrases. He said soomething about needles in his eyes, then, bleahhhh.”

The abrupt sweeping gesture Zsasz made with his hand from stomach to mouth was more than adequate. “At least he made it to the sink.”

Jim huffed out a slow breath and eyed the silent door for a little while before knocking. There was no answer so after waiting a few moments, he pushed it open a crack. “Oswald?”

The room was in pitch blackness.

“Yes, Jim?”

Jim pushed it open wider.

Oswald sat on the edge of the neatly made single bed, in a rectangle of light from the open door, blinking and squinting with his hands clasped together on his lap. “Good morning,” he said, his lips twitching into a frantic smile.

“It's evening.”

“Oh, is it? Then good evening.”

Jim edged closer. “How are you feeling?”

“Yes, very good, thank you,” Oswald murmured.

“Why are the lights off? Were you sleeping?” Jim wondered if he'd interrupted a nap.

Oswald blinked nervously. “I...I don't....” His hands twitched up and down his legs before he clasped them together again as if he had to force them to stop moving.

“The light switch is right over here,” Jim said, clicking on the overhead light. “You can turn it on anytime you want.”

The smile dropped from Oswald's face and his forehead wrinkled into a puzzled frown. “Anytime you want,” he repeated slowly. His mouth trembled and he swallowed hard. “Is that what I want?”

Jim almost asked Oswald if it was okay to sit next to him, then thought better of it, because he had the feeling it could lead to an hours'-long discussion, but he watched Oswald for signs of unease as he crossed the room and sat next to him, settling his weight on the bed. He didn't want to intrude or freak him out.

Oswald merely stared at him with a bewildered expression.

Jim cleared his throat and wiped his mouth. “If you feel like sitting in the dark, you can. But you can turn on the switch anytime, if you want. This is your room.”

Oswald stared at him, then looked down at his lap. “Okay.” He didn't sound very sure of himself. Oswald's stomach growled.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Supper is at 6 o'clock. All inmates will proceed to the cafeteria in an orderly manner,” Oswald said, with a sudden authoritative voice that almost sounded like his old self.

“I think it's after seven,” Jim said.

Oswald, incredibly, looked even more crestfallen. “I missed it,” he whispered.

“It'll be a late supper,” Jim said. “How's that sound?”

“Eating outside the proscribed hours is strictly against regulations,” Oswald said, voice trembling. “I don't think Dr. Strange would approve.”

“Well, Dr. Strange isn't here, and we're doing things differently,” Jim said firmly. “Come on.”

Jim stood up and walked out of the room, pausing to look back.

Oswald cautiously stepped up to the open door, and stopped at the threshold, his fingers opening and closing convulsively, eyes darting about the room with such a helpless expression that Jim's heart ached.

Jim held out his hand, as he'd done the night before when he coaxed Oswald out of the van. “C'mon,” he said, with an encouraging smile. “Time to eat.”

Oswald smiled timidly and allowed Jim to lead him to the table.

A glance into the sink showed that someone had cleaned it, fortunately. The smell of bleach stung his nostrils. At least the assassins didn't think cleaning up was beneath them.

Oswald ate mechanically, hunched over the table as if worried someone would steal his food. He ate everything on the tray.

Having missed supper himself, Jim found a microwavable burger and heated it up. Every item of food in the fridge was prepackaged, and bags of chips and other snacks were piled on the counters. None of the assassins were into cooking or fresh food, apparently.

After Oswald was finished, Zsasz announced cheerfully, “Time for the bathroom, boss.”

Oswald brought the empty aluminum tray to the counter and headed into the bathroom on the other side of the living room.

After the door closed behind him, Jim turned to Zsasz with a scowl. “I think he can decide some things for himself.”

Zsasz rolled his eyes. “Uhhh, hel-lo, actually, no, he can't. He can't even decide if he wants the lights on or not. You seen him.”

“Has he been like this all day?”

“Well, he never held _my_ hand,” Zsasz said, flashing a grin. “But yeah. Pretty much.”

Distressed, Jim flopped down into an armchair and hung his head in his hands.

Zsasz yawned and stretched. “We already told him he can leave his room whenever he wants, but he won't budge unless he's got permission. This morning Tiff found him all curled up and guessed he was holding it in. So, regular bathroom breaks.”

“He didn't even...even ask?”

“Dr. Strange controlled everything.”

Jim dragged a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

“Don't take it so hard, Jimbo. Only the first day.”

There was a polite knock from the bathroom.

“He's done,” Zsasz said, pushing to his feet.

When Zsasz opened the bathroom door, Oswald limped out, favoring his bad leg, and Jim realized he'd forgotten to ask about pain meds.

“Did that Advil help any?” he asked, getting up.

Oswald wrapped his arms around his chest and eyed Zsasz warily, shaking his head, but Jim couldn't tell if that meant the pills hadn't helped or if he didn't want to say anything in front of Zsasz.

“Do you need some other kind of pill?” Jim asked.

Oswald shrugged, nervously dragged his fingers through his hair, and at last mumbled, “Tylenol extra-strength.”

He watched Victor as the other man walked back to the couch, then leaned close to Jim. “Jim, Victor is a bad man,” Oswald said in a too-loud stage whisper, frantic and intense. “A bad, _bad_ man.”

Zsasz stifled a laugh, waved his hands at Jim in an amused sort of way, happily accepting that Oswald was stating the obvious, and disappeared into the couch again.

Oswald clutched Jim's arm. “Dr. Strange does not want me around bad people anymore. If he finds out I'm here with Victor, he'll be so unhappy with me, you have no idea what...”

“Oswald.” Jim put his hands on his shoulders. “It doesn't matter what Dr. Strange thinks. Not anymore.”

“But when I go back, he'll...”

“You're not going back, if I can help it.”

Oswald gasped and backed away. “Oh no. No, no, no, don't say that. Dr. Strange is helping me get better, he's teaching me to be a good person. Don't you want me to be good?”

Jim rubbed his mouth, frustrated and uncertain all over again. Was he doing Oswald any favors, really? Was he just too pigheaded and shortsighted to understand what Strange was doing?

Oswald shivered, hugging himself, lip quivering.

Jim steeled his resolve. People didn't vomit just at the thought of a legitimate mental healthcare treatment. Something very wrong had been done to Oswald, something to do with this crap machine, whatever it was, and Jim wasn't going to let it continue.

Reaching out, he took both of Oswald's hands in his own.

“Oswald, Dr. Strange wasn't helping you,” he said, watching Oswald closely for signs of negative reactions. Badmouthing Strange might make him more upset and defensive. “I don't believe you can torture anybody into being good. I promise I'll do everything in my power to keep you out of Arkham.”

He rubbed his thumbs over the backs of Oswald's hands, feeling them tremble. “You're going to be all right. I just need you to trust me a little longer.”

He hoped like hell it would prove true, that he would be able to keep these promises and fulfill Oswald's trust in him.

  
Jim encouraged him to sit in one of the armchairs and watch TV since there wasn't much else to do, and Jim was too exhausted to think up other things to occupy Oswald's time. It was better than Oswald sitting in his room worrying about whether Dr. Strange wanted him to turn on the lights or not.

Zsasz found a nature documentary that seemed to allow Oswald to relax, or at least to look less like he was about to burst into tears.

Jim could barely keep his eyes open any longer, and he fell asleep in his armchair.

Some time later, he awoke with a start.

The living room was dark except for the light from the screen.

The weight against his leg turned out to be Oswald, warm and relaxed and fast asleep, sitting on the floor with his legs curled up, resting his head on the side of Jim's thigh.

Jim felt too comfortable to move, although a sluggish thought went through his mind that it would be nice if Oswald were squeezed into the chair next to him.

The murmur of the TV was the only sound in the room besides Oswald's gentle breathing, and the lateness of the hour combined with a cozy lethargy dulled the boundaries he'd firmly set in place for himself.

Oswald had come to him.

He tentatively placed his fingers on Oswald's hair, then glanced at his face. The man remained peaceful, his lashes lying still against his pale cheeks.

Suddenly feeling guilty, he looked over at the couch, but it was empty. Had Zsasz gone out? The door to the other bedroom was closed, maybe Zsasz went to bed.

The light of the TV flickered over Oswald's striped uniform. Jim had forgotten to bring the extra clothes. They were in bags in his apartment, store tags still on them, but he wondered if Oswald would agree to changing out of the Arkham suit. That might be a battle for another day.

He smoothed down the hair on top of his head. Poor Oswald could really use a shower. They'd add that to the schedule.

As his fingertips continued their course down the side of Oswald's head, fingernails lightly stroking, Jim thought about what hair products Oswald used. Or used to use.

He could get some for him. Would Oswald like that? He'd always taken such care with his looks. Smelled so good, too. Jim wondered what cologne Oswald liked. Maybe if Jim got his usual personal hygiene items it could help with...

Oswald jerked awake, blinking at him owlishly, and Jim snatched his hand away, his fuzzy boundaries coming into sharp focus once again, like a clap of thunder from above.

He coughed. “Time for bed,” he said, forcing a smile.

“Is this a dream?” Oswald mumbled, rubbing his eyes as Jim got up.

“Naw. Come on,” Jim said, holding out his hand to help him to his feet. Oswald rose stiffly, straightening his bad leg with a grimace.

It was automatic at this point, holding Oswald's hand, but as he led him across the room, he got a sinking feeling that he was replacing Dr. Strange as the one telling Oswald what to do.

He didn't want that. And he really should quit holding Oswald's hand, the man already demonstrated that he could walk across a room without assistance, for crying out loud. Was it condescending? Maybe Jim was being condescending.

Except, Oswald seemed to like it. Who was he to deny Oswald this small thing that brought some comfort?

And fine, Jim liked it, too. So they could both use some comfort.

He told Oswald good night and turned to leave, but Oswald stopped him short.

“Stay with me?” he whispered.

Jim froze. They stood there, staring at each other, Oswald so open and soft, and so sad that Jim wanted to make him happy, and close enough that Jim could feel the heat of his body.

Jim's face heated. Whoa. He better not.

He took a step back. “Can't.”

And immediately felt like the world's biggest jerk when Oswald's face crumpled, dejection in every line of his body, and Jim found he was moving before he thought it through, went to put an arm around him.

Only one arm. At least he had that much self control.

“I'll be back tomorrow, all right?” he said, and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Okay, maybe not as much control as he should have.

Oswald struggled to compose himself. “What if you don't?”

Jim sighed. He didn't have a change of clothes here and didn't particularly relish going to work in the same suit as the day before.  
Oh well. At least it would support any rumors he had a new love interest.

 _Not far off the mark, now, is it?_ came the snide thought, which must have come from some morally grey corner of his mind. He squelched it.

“How about I sleep on the couch?” he asked. “Right out there. Okay?”

Oswald hiccupped and nodded, leaning into him.

One more little sideways hug, and Jim got out of there before he overstepped even worse than he already had.

He left the light on for him and the door ajar, then set the alarm on his phone and tried to get comfortable on the too-soft couch with his suit jacket as a blanket.

The feel of Oswald's soft cheek on his lips, brief as it was, left its impression on him, however, and it took a long time for him to fall asleep again.

The next morning he found Oswald curled up on the floor next to the couch, fast asleep.


End file.
